


nsfw (not safe for woshua)

by simplycarryon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Dirty Jokes, Gen, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:56:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5245724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplycarryon/pseuds/simplycarryon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>* Woshua shuffles up.</p><p>[ * ACT]</p><p>[CHECK] [CLEAN] [TOUCH] [ * JOKE]</p>
            </blockquote>





	nsfw (not safe for woshua)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feralphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/gifts).



> ~~wosh u pear~~
> 
> prompt fill! dirty jokes with Woshua, based on the [actual jokes you get](http://starfaits.tumblr.com/post/132383508744/i-hate-this) if you choose the joke option. this Chara and Frisk are based off [forgivesin's ](http://forgivesin.tumblr.com/) interpretation, which I adore.

The creature that blocks your path looks like an impatient cross between a turtle and a bathtub.

It’s—cute. You want to pet it, sort of, even if you know by now that the monsters of Waterfall aren’t exactly what you would consider friendly. Chara drifts tiredly behind you, their projection fading out at the edges, and you turn back to look at them for advice.

“Woshua,” they say, floating a little closer, the presence of something not-you and not-echo-flowers grabbing their attention a little more. They gesture at the creature, their arms flung lazily wide. “This humble germophobe seeks to cleanse the whole world. Not a bad idea, if you ask me.”

You note the way it’s staring single-mindedly at your dusty tutu, and you dive out of the way as it fires a jet of water in your direction.

“Wosh u leg,” it says, after the fact.

“Huh. Smells like detergent,” Chara remarks, floating unhelpfully over your head. You don’t glare at them, exactly, but you do frown a little bit, wondering what the best way to make it go away is.

 _Help?_ you ask. 

You don’t say it, not really, but that’s the nice thing about this whole body-sharing deal; Chara’s crammed in your head anyway. They know the words you think directly at them, without you ever having to put a voice to them, and at your request they float a little straighter, drifting close enough to peer at the bird on Woshua’s back before returning to your side.

“It probably just wants to clean you,” they suggest, crossing their arms over their chest. “And uh, everything you own. You could let it.”

You sidestep another jet of water, and the stream rotates in sprinkler fashion and sprays water in a wide radius. You wouldn’t mind letting yourself be cleaned—you’re tired and grimy and you could use a bath and something to get the muck out of your hair and your clothes.

The spout of soapy water hits you directly in the face, and you regret that entire line of thought immediately. This was not the bath you had in mind.

“Oops,” Chara says.

 _Help,_ you call again, a little more urgently. _Please?_

“Okay, okay. Look, uh. This will be easier if I can have control,” they say, and their image vanishes. You know their presence hasn’t shifted at all, but you can feel them more clearly without the projection to, well, project on—an insistent charisma at the back of your mind. “I can make it go away, but I have to be able to talk to it.”

The thought puts a cold spike of fear down your spine, but you do your best to disregard it. Talking isn’t as bad when Chara does it; they’ve taken over for phone calls, sometimes, and situations where single words and emphatic gestures don’t get your message across. They’re better at words than you are, better at turning your rusty voice into something that doesn’t get you hurt.

“It’ll be okay, Frisk,” they tell you, a reassuring whisper; you think you can feel their hands on yours for a ghostly second. It’s comforting, even if you know it’s not a real sensation, and to mirror the gesture you clasp your right hand in your left before you give them control.

Chara sits in your body differently than you do; you think, from the way that they immediately straighten your—their?—spine and rebalance themselves, that they are accustomed to being taller, more lyrical in their movements. They are better prepared for a fight, their stance shifting immediately into something more guarded, their hand tightening around your stick until their knuckles go white.

You are not entirely removed from sensation, just sort of muted, and so when they speak in your dusty unpracticed tones, you can distance yourself enough from the fear that it doesn’t hurt either of you.

“Hey,” they rasp, stone against sandpaper, rough grit between gears. It takes a moment for them to reach any kind of speed, but this is the most use your vocal cords have had in a long time. “Ever heard the joke about the kid who ate a pie with their bare hands? They got stains _everywhere._ On their nice clean clothes, and in the carpet, and all over the floor, and little crumbs everywhere—“

“NO!” Woshua screeches, launching an enormous bar of soap in your direction. It ricochets wildly around the room, bouncing off the walls and leaving sudsy trails; Chara sidesteps it quickly, their grin stretching wide at your face as the soap bounces and skids to a bubbly stop in a nearby pool. 

_I don’t get it,_ you tell them, confused. _Where’s the punchline?_

“Don’t worry about it. Hey, how about the one where two kids played in a muddy flower garden?” they ask, stepping closer to Woshua, who rapidly backpedals. “They had so much fun! They played there all day, right after it had been watered, and they made mud pies and rolled in the dirt and let the mud squish between their toes, like—“ They imitate a squishing sound, wiggling their toes in the tight-laced ballet slippers, and you giggle. 

“THAT JOKE’S TOO DIRTY!!” Woshua screams. Its water jets become cannons, solid pillars of cleanliness that blast the two of you off your feet and backwards into a field of echo flowers; Chara flounders for a moment, grunting an indignant sharpened word that the flowers immediately begin whispering, and gets back up.

“Okay,” they say, dusting themself off angrily, hissing at the pressure in a couple of places; you can feel a fragment of the ache the impact left on you, and you’re quietly grateful that they’re absorbing most of the pain on your behalf. “How about the one with the kid who slept in the dirt? They suffered so much, and their hands bled and their insides rotted, and—“ 

Their voice cracks, and you realize, with a pang of distress, that this isn’t even an attempt at a joke any more, that none of them have been.

“—And then they fell asleep, and everything was going to be right and okay, except it wasn’t and it wasn’t and everything was wrong and everything hurt and they couldn’t save anyone and then just soil and dark and empty—“

You push back into control of your body, and Chara gives it willingly, lapsing into silence in the background as your senses sharpen back into clear and present injury. Your throat hurts, more than a little, and you wonder if that’s from talking or getting hit or wanting to cry or some painful combination of all three.

“Too dirty,” Woshua says, backpedaling again, apparently too disgusted by Chara’s stories to stick around. “Yuck. Wosh u SOUL.”

It retreats into the recesses of Waterfall’s odd lighting, and you find a place to sit where you can have your back to the wall and you try to focus your thoughts.

Healing, first. You need health, and—you don’t have much on you any more, just a slightly-melted bar of nice cream that you unwrap and chew on. It’s cold against your teeth; the wrapper is smudged, but you think it says _Love yourself! I love you!_

You crumple it up and shove it in your pocket.

 _Everything okay?_ you ask, after the ache in your bones has faded enough that you can think clearly, after Chara’s been silent for an expanse of time that they almost never are because they’re too busy sassing you or making lovingly sarcastic remarks about your environment.

“Not okay,” Chara replies. They haven’t bothered with a projection, but you get the sense that they’re folded in on themself, wrapped up into the smallest shape they can be. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

 _Those stories,_ you press, gently, wishing they were here and in front of you so you could comfort them better. _Those weren’t jokes._

“No.”

_Stories of you?_

There’s a very, very long silence, and your ears ring in the expanse of it, and then—“Yes.”

You’re about to ask something else when Chara pulls separate from you, their projection materializing like a shadow from your feet. They are exactly as you thought they were, wrapped up in themself, and you want to hold them, to curl yourself around them and tell them that you’re here and you love them, because you do, very much. 

Instead, you reach out your hands, and you reach for them until your hands are about level with their face. 

“Sorry,” you say, actually letting the word take shape in your voice.

Chara moves their hands away from their face, very slowly, and you can see their projection melting black at the eyes. It’s like crying, you’ve come to realize, or—maybe not? But it doesn’t generally accompany good things, and you don’t think Chara ever does it on purpose.

“Don’t need to be sorry,” Chara says, looking away from you, wrapping their arms a little tighter around themself. “Not your fault.”

“Sorry anyway.”

They give you a sort of half-laugh, and after a moment, their gaze drifts back up. Their cheeks are rosy, even through the projection, and if they were comfortable with their hair being touched (and corporeal enough to be touched at all), you’d probably run your fingers through their hair in your own gestures of reassurance. But they are neither of those things, so you just scoot a little closer instead.

“Didn’t mean to say all those things,” they say, sniffling a little. The melting has eased, at least, and they look a little better; you don’t feel their guilt and sadness pulling at your core so heavily any more. “I just wanted to scare it off.”

“You did,” you say, pointing in the direction Woshua vanished in.

“Yeah, but—not like that,” they amend. “I didn’t mean to do all of that.”

“Very brave,” you add.

“Wh—huh??” Chara looks puzzled at best, frowning in confusion; you break into a smile.

“Like Papyrus!” It’s hard for you to get your point across, especially when they’re staring blankly at you, but they aren’t crying any more, so you try again. “Brave and awesome!”

“Shut up,” Chara says, nudging you with a foot. “You don’t mean that.”

“Do too.” You dig through your pockets and produce the crumpled nice cream wrapper, unfolding it and smoothing it out a little before pushing it at them, gently aggressive. “Read!”

“No! Gross! It’s still sticky!” You push it _into_ their projection, and their voice in your mind hits a shrill pitch and cracks awkwardly as they kick off the floor and away from your hands to avoid the crinkled wrapper. _“Frisk!”_

“Read!”

Chara groans and floats close again, squinting at the writing. “Love yourself. I love you. Wow, that’s really sappy. Is this hand-written?”

“Love you!” you echo.

Chara goes silent, stunned. They gape at you, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to them, and they open and close their mouth once or twice, trying to find words.

They finally settle on “You’re weird,” but it’s soft and almost-gentle and you think they don’t mean it, not in the way you’ve heard them use it before.

You smile in return, and you fold the wrapper carefully this time and put it back in your pocket; your fingers and mouth are still sticky, so you splash a little water on your hands and dab it at the corners of your mouth before you get up to keep going.

“Wosh u hand,” Chara says unhelpfully, as you trail your fingers in the water and admire the ripples you leave. You laugh and splash water at their projection. “Wosh u leg. Wosh u teeth and eyes.”

“Gross,” you say, and you wipe your hands on your shirt to dry them and you start walking again. Chara drifts along next to you, still amused, but after a moment you think you can feel the illusory warmth of their hand in yours.


End file.
